The Good Man
by Suilven
Summary: In the Tower, there is no black and white, only shades of grey.


**The Good Man**

It was all a lie.

All of the reasons they'd told him that he'd been selected for this role: his loyalty, his dedication, his years of exemplary service… all lies. Not that he'd outright lied—he'd never needed to—half-truths and omissions had always been more than enough. The truth curdled in his stomach, though his posture gave nothing away. He was a statue by the door, ever watchful, as it should be.

The mage in the bed whimpered and clutched her stomach, drawing her knees up. Senior Enchanter Lucille sat close by, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth and murmuring words too quiet for him to hear. She must be getting close; they had been here for hours now. The Knight-Commander had been by not long ago, offering to send someone to relieve him, but he had declined. He would stay, he'd said. No sense bothering someone else. The Knight-Commander had nodded, looking at him with a warm, proud gaze. Commendable, he'd said. If only all my men were like you.

Senior Enchanter Lucille helped the woman sit up, gently swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Walking will help the babe move down further."

"I don't know if I can." She sat slumped over, her hands wrapped around her belly. The linen shift clung damply to the curve of her back. He shouldn't be staring. It wasn't proper. But, how could he not?

"You can do this, child. Here." He felt the old woman's power flare and the mage sighed in relief, the tension in her form ebbing away. "That should take the edge off at least." She pulled the young mage to her feet, supporting her as they made a slow circuit around the room. Neither one acknowledged his presence, not that he'd expected them to.

When she could no longer walk, doubling over with the intensity of her pains, Senior Enchanter Lucille guided her to the birthing stool in the corner. He tried not to hear her screams. He tried to pretend that rivulets of cold sweat weren't dripping down his back. He would not care. He wasn't allowed to care. She was just a mage.

"One more push now, the head is out." Inside his helm, no one could see the way his breathing nearly stopped. The mage gave another primal groan, her head bent forward, folding in on herself. "And there's the rest, child. You did well." The Senior Enchanter's body blocked his view, but he could tell that she cradled something—not _something_, the babe—in her lap, rubbing it carefully with a clean cloth. Shouldn't it be crying? Maybe something was wrong? The old woman seemed unconcerned, reaching over to pat the mage's arm reassuringly. "Just the afterbirth, and it will all be finished."

"Is it a boy or a girl? Why isn't it crying?" She was shivering as she turned to look at the Senior Enchanter, her eyes red and swollen looking.

"What difference does it make, child? You're better off not knowing."

The mage pushed the Senior Enchanter's arm away. "It matters to me. Tell me." She raised her hand and pushed the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair from her face. "I want to know. Please."

The Senior Enchanter studied her face closely for a moment and the babe suddenly began to wail, a fierce keening cry that stabbed through him like a sword in his gut. "It's a boy," she finally said.

The mage nodded and slumped forward with a groan. The babe continued to cry as the old woman swaddled him in a blanket and laid him down next to her on the floor. He scarcely noticed the rest—the delivery of the afterbirth, the old woman helping her back to bed, the methodical examination and healing—he was too transfixed by the lump of blankets that was emitting such a piercing sound. Why were they just leaving it there? He took a hesitant step forward, then another. The Senior Enchanter looked up at him and he gestured at the babe before taking in the sight of the young mage. She was pale, nearly translucent, her lips tinged with blue.

"What's happening? Is she all right?" He struggled to keep the alarm out of his voice and failed. The mage gave a startled jerk at the sound of his voice but her eyes remained pressed tightly shut.

The old woman's brow was wrinkled in concentration. "She's bleeding more than she should be. I need to fetch some lyrium. Stay with her, please."

"Of course." He stood there helplessly as she bustled out of the room, and then glanced anxiously between the woman on the bed and the wailing bundle on the floor.

She was going to be fine. Senior Enchanter Lucille was the best healer in the Tower.

He cautiously approached the babe; the child had worked an arm free and his small fist was flailing as he screamed. After another moment of hesitation, he worked his gauntlets free, setting them down on the floor before awkwardly scooping up the babe, who continued to cry. His face was a mottled red, nearly purple. Now what was he supposed to do? He wished he'd remembered to take off his helm.

"Shhh… don't cry. It's all right," he whispered, tucking the babe up against his chest. His armor made it difficult to hold him close; he didn't want to risk hurting him.

"What are you doing? Have you come to take him?" The mage's voice was shaky and weak, but full of venom.

He shook his head slowly, unable to look away. The hatred in her eyes bored into him. Did she know it was him? He didn't think so…

The door swung open. "Here we are. Let's get you all healed up." The Senior Enchanter held two vials of bright blue liquid. She glanced at him. "You can take the babe to the sisters now, Ser Templar. They're expecting you."

"No! I won't let you take him!" Despite her weakness, the force of the power she was drawing was astonishing. The air crackled with it, enough to make his hair stand on end.

He didn't want to do this, but she'd left him no choice. She could kill them all, tear the Veil... He opened himself up, a conduit drawing her mana in and bleeding it away, the force of it scorching and searing through his veins. Only when there was nothing but the barest whisper left, did he close himself off. She had fallen back against the pillow, her eyes closed once more.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. The babe had stopped crying, watching them all with wide eyes.

"You did what you had to do, Ser Templar. She's not in her right mind at the moment. I'll see to her." The old woman shuffled over to the side of the bed, checking the mage's pulse with a practiced hand.

"Will she be all right?" he asked.

The Senior Enchanter nodded. "In time. Take the babe now, before she comes around."

Clutching the child tightly, he practically fled the room. He took the less used hallways and staircases as he made his way to the chapel, sneaking glances at the babe as he went. Deep blue eyes. A dusting of reddish blond hair. A tiny upturned mouth, just like hers. Those boundless eyes stared up at him as he walked, so trusting. He swallowed, willing the clenched fist that gripped his heart to loosen… but, it did not. The chapel doors lay before him; there was nothing more he could do.

"So, this is the babe then?" Sister Elanor reached out and plucked the child from his arms before he could protest, not that he would have.

"Yes, Sister."

"Thank you, Ser Templar. Sister Marcella and I will be leaving immediately to take the child to the Chantry in Lothering. Has the Knight-Commander assigned you to be one of the guards accompanying us?" As she spoke she unswaddled the babe, wrapping his lower half in a square of cloth that she folded and pinned into place.

"No, Sister, he has not spoken to me about it."

Sister Elanor lifted the babe up. "That's better, isn't it?" The little face wrinkled up into a wail. "Are you cold? Let's get you some warmer blankets."

"Do you need anything else, Sister?"

"No, thank you." She held the child to her chest and rocked him gently. "He'll be fine once we get him to the Chantry proper. Now, I must find where Sister Marcella has moved the blankets to, and fetch this one some milk." She bowed her head briefly before disappearing deeper into the chapel; the child's cries growing fainter until he could no longer pick them out amidst the murmurs of the worshippers.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, curious looks finally drawing him out of his thoughts. He blinked. The swaddling blanket was still there, left discarded on the low table near the doors. When no one was watching, he took it.

He walked back to the birthing room, scarcely noticing the path his feet took to get there. The Chantry in Lothering was supposed to be well-maintained. There were quite a few in the ranks that had come from there, and they were all good men, for the most part. The door was slightly ajar as he approached, and he peered in before pushing it open.

Senior Enchanter Lucille was wiping her hands clean on a scrap of cloth as he entered. "How is she?" he asked, his eyes already seeking out the mage in the bed. Even he could see that her color was much improved, her breathing slow and even.

"She'll be fine in a day or two. She just needs some rest now. I'll send one of the other enchanters in to sit with her for a while." She chuckled. "I'm starting to get too old for this."

"Have you… delivered many?"

"Aye. It's not common, but it happens more than you might think."

He shifted uncomfortably and then held out the blanket. "I brought this back. In case, she wanted it."

The old woman studied him for a moment. "Yes, she probably would, although the sooner she forgets all this, the better." She took the blanket from his hands and set it on the table next to the bed. "I'll see that she gets it, all the same." She watched him for another moment. "You're a good man, Ser Templar. Thank you. Might I know your name?"

He shook his head. "My name isn't important. I was just… doing my duty."

"Of course." She bowed her head. "I will go fetch one of the other enchanters now."

Once she had gone, he cautiously approached the bed. He shouldn't look at the mage. She was nothing to him, after all. What did it matter to him if she began to whimper and thrash in her sleep?

"Mine." Her anguished cries filled the room as she tossed fitfully. "Mine."

She was just a mage.

Yet, he found himself sitting down in the chair next to the bed, stroking her temple, smoothing away the hair from her face. "It's all right, Wynne. He's safe. They'll look after him. You'll see." He gathered the blanket up from the table and tucked it gently next to her cheek. After a moment, he rose and collected his gauntlets from the floor, encasing his hands in the comfortable familiarity of metal, and took his position by the door.

For once, he was grateful for his helm, as the tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

Not _mine_.

Ours.

* * *

><p><em>AN: My grandmother passed away suddenly last week, so I've been thinking a lot about the concept of loss. This was the result._

_For those of you (still) waiting for Scars That Bind, thank you for your continued patience. My beta is hoping to look at the new chapter today, so I'll be posting it as soon as I've heard back from her and made any changes. Thank you!_


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